This Was A Mistake
by DeliriousMess
Summary: Part of the Mob!AU ("Look; don't touch") that got out of hand. Inspired by a line from a prompt list on tumblr, it takes place after their first time together. Jennifer has some regrets and worries.


She wakes up before him, the sun is warm on her face as it peeks through her window and over his shoulder. She watches him. Breathing in and out, slowly, evenly, that agitation that always makes his face stony and hard even when she's with him, is finally gone. All that's left is the handsome man that watches her, taunts her, teases her, coaxes her, _pushes_ her until they both finally broke and ended up here.

Until they broke the one rule that was meant to keep them safe.

Meant to keep them alive.

She can't blame him, she knows she gave as good as she got-they both share the blame for this choice.

She reaches out and lightly traces his face, moving his thick hair out of his eyes gently, and memorizes his face like this-memorizes the feeling of his skin under her fingers, the feel and gentle scrape of the stubble along his jaw against the sensitive back of her fingers, the texture of his lips and the shape of his mouth.

She wants every detail of this moment, of him sleeping next to her, sharing the warmth of her bed, etched into her soul for the rest of her life.

Because she knows that this can _never_ happen again.

Tears sting her eyes before she realizes what's happening, and suddenly he's swimming in light.

She closes her eyes and breathes for a moment, trying to take back her control of her emotions. Finally she shifts carefully next to him, trying to make her movement against the mattress as unnoticeable as possible, and kisses his forehead, breathing him in to try to remember his scent.

There's something under his cologne and the smell of gunmetal that always makes her think of the sea. She had hoped that one day she would've been able to ask him about why that is, about what secret he's keeping that makes her think of the ocean.

There are many things she had hoped to ask him about before this.

She pulls away before too long, and carefully climbs out of her bed. She stands, trying not to let the floorboards creak, and starts gathering their shed clothes. Maybe it will hurt less if she can be the one to tell him to leave, if she can be the one rushing and acting like nothing happened before he wakes up and does it.

But it _did_ happen.

And nothing will ever be the same again.

It feels like only a minute before the air changes with his waking up. She hears the gentle thud of his arm falling on the bed in the space she vacated, the rush of his hand sliding on the sheet as he tries to find her, his sigh and sped up breathing as he raises his head from the pillow to find her.

She's determined not to look at him, not to acknowledge that he's there as she keeps picking up clothes, even as he says, voice still gruff from sleep and-if she's willing to dream-with want, "Hey."

She stops, for just a moment, before she grabs a shirt from the floor and as he half yawns and drowsily smiles at her back, "Whatcha doin'?"

She wants, more than anything, to be in a situation where she can just leave their clothes on the floor and tell him that she's just going to make coffee, that she isn't doing anything, a situation where she can smile at him and tell him that she's just "putting on a show" for him.

But instead, everything else bubbles out of her, as she says over her shoulder, "This was a mistake."

The words land hard against the floor in the space between them, and she's almost surprised that she doesn't see the wood splintering in the shape of the letters there.

"What?" he finally manages to ask, as if he can't see the damage the words have already done.

She straightens, and absently plucks at the shirt-the _sweater,_ actually; _his_ sweater, that's gray with red and white lines on the sleeves and at the bottom-that's draped over her arm. In another world, she could've shrugged into it and gone to start on breakfast, could've surrounded herself in his scent and presence for a little while longer.

"This was a stupid, _stupid_ mistake," she continues, trying to keep her voice even and detached, "that shouldn't've happened. It can't happen again."

"Jennifer-"

"Please." She says as firmly as she can muster, turning to him finally but still not looking at him directly, "Don't call me that."

It hurts even to say. The words are sharp and rip her throat to shreds as they come out. She is so suddenly and painfully aware of how naked she is-literally and figuratively-standing in the middle of her room, asking the only person who knows her name and who will call her by it, not to.

 _"There is no one to want me, to say my name."_

He sits up, propping a leg up for him to lean gently against, and says, a bit more firmly, "Just put that stuff down."

She draws her arms closer to her and looks just to her right as Duke places his right hand down on the bed to lean on it, leaning closer to her, as he runs his other hand through his hair and tries again, "Just come back to bed, _Jennifer."_

She flinches at her name, at his determination to not let her forget it. He's so goddamn _stubborn,_ "We can talk about this."

She shakes her head and hugs the bundle of clothes in her arms closer to herself again, as if that will put the needed barrier between them or protect her from his words-from her own name-and keeps looking at her feet, "No. No we can't do this. You-you should go. You can't stay here."

He watches her as she keeps plucking at his sweater and rambles, "I've got to be somewhere this afternoon and if I'm not there-"

"You don't have to be anywhere; it's your day off." Duke interrupts. He ducks his head a bit, trying to catch her eye as he smiles at her, "I'm your bodyguard. It's my job to know where you have to be and when."

She bites her lip to keep from smirking at him and shakes her hair into her eyes to try to hide it from him. But he sees it. There's very little she can hide from him. His smile grows, becoming warmer, "And right now you just have to come back to this bed and _talk_ to me."

She sighs and shakes her head impatiently at him before finally just saying, "It's not safe-if anyone finds out about us-about _this..."_

She doesn't see or hear him move as she keeps saying, "They'll kill us. You know they will-you know _how_ they will. Or, worse, they'll make us _wish_ we were dead."

A shadow falls over her face, but she won't look up at him. He breathes her name again, and she knows he's going to try to reach for her. The shadow moves near where his arm must be and she takes a step back to avoid his hand just as it comes near her face.

"Please," she whimpers as his hand cradles empty air, "don't...make this harder than it is."

She hates how her voice quakes and cracks, hates how broken it makes her sound.

 _"Broken things aren't kept here."_

She wants to hate him. She wants to throw his clothing at him and to be hard and cruel to him so he'll leave and hate her and make this easier. She should have let him wake up first, should have just let him do this first-that would've been easier than this. But the way he's acting, the way he's trying to treat her, it's clear that he wouldn't do what needs to be done.

She wants to blame him for pushing her, she wants him to blame her for pushing him, she wants so desperately for this to not be as painful as it is.

She hears him sigh-a long breath through his nose-all-suffering and frustrated, something she's used to hearing from him. Under different circumstances, that sigh would earn a chuckle from her, or a snide comment-she almost wishes they could go back to that. Then she feels the air shift again as he comes closer to her. It's not overbearing, it's not intrusive, and, worst of all, it's not unwanted. She turns her head away from him, and hunches her shoulders in an absent-minded attempt to make herself smaller, to shrink from him. She can't bring herself to step away from him again. Every other act of cruelty, of trying to push him away has taken all her energy and she just wants this to be over. He brushes her hair out of her face, letting his fingers trail behind her ear, down her jaw, to her neck. It takes the very last of her resolve not to turn her head into his touch.

She feels tears burn trails down her cheeks to her chin, and her voice breaks again when she begs, "Don't do this."

He brings his other hand up to brush at the tears on her cheek, making a disapproving noise with his tongue as he does, and she relaxes slightly, her arms dropping slightly and letting one of the articles of clothing fall back to the floor. But not all of them, not enough for her to finally give in. He sees the cracks appearing in her resolve now, though; he knows he can get her to stop this act.

She swallows, trying to keep her heart and the sobs that keep tightening her throat buried in her chest, "Don't touch me like this."

He lets his hands rest on either side of her neck so that the tips of his thumbs brush the delicate skin under her jaw-the skin he'd tasted just a few hours before. He breathes her name again, this time with an added request, "Look at me."

She squeezes her eyes closed, prompting more tears to spill from her eyes. She won't look at him. She can be so _stubborn,_ "Please. Just leave. Just go. Pretend this never happened. This doesn't have to-"

He takes another step towards her, close enough that she can feel his heat radiating on her-welcoming, beckoning, "Jennifer."

She draws her lips into her mouth so it forms a trembling line, squeezing her eyes hard at her name in a flinch. He carefully prompts her to tilt her head back so if she opens her eyes, she looks at him.

She keeps her eyes defiantly closed.

So fucking _stubborn._

He kisses her forehead and she whimpers again, her arms relaxing a little bit more. He smiles at that, not meaning to, but he does. He knows her, knows what she's trying to do but he won't let her. Because he wants this, wants _her,_ consequences be damned.

He kisses her eyelids gently-everything about him is so gentle and so soft to her and she can't process that; it has been so _long_ since anyone has treated her like this. He mumbles for her to look at him again.

She coughs on a strangled sob, "Duke. _Please."_

His lips brush from her eyelid to her cheek and he kisses one then the other, mumbling, "That's the first time you've said my name."

She takes a step towards him before she can register what she's doing, the clothing loose enough in her arms that more of it falls to the floor until she's left clinging to his sweater, "Don't."

He kisses along her jaw temptingly, "Don't what?"

She swallows again, "We _can't."_

"We already did." He murmurs and then finally kisses her lips. He feels her hesitate for a moment, still trying to keep her resolve firm, to give him an out, to be the one to stop this from snowballing into something that will-the way he feels, he knows there is no "could"-crush them both. He could love her for that if he's given the time, if she gives him the time.

But the moment passes and soon she drops the sweater completely, placing her freed hands on his hips and pulling him closer until her body is pressed against his-just skin against skin. Her nails dig into the skin at the back of his hips and he responds by letting his teeth scrape her bottom lip. The kiss turns hungrier, then, on both sides, and his hands go from being in her hair to tracing her body until he could prompt her to hop into his arms. She eagerly does, even wrapping her legs around his waist and rolling her hips against him once she's there.

He smiles through the kiss as he turns them back towards the bed. She runs her fingers through his thick hair, relishing the feeling of it again. She should have just done this to begin with, should've just woken him with kisses until he rolled her into light with him. She expects him to lay her down and for him to position himself over her so they can commit the same sin that they had the night before again-and maybe a few more times after that; after all, she doesn't have to be anywhere today. Instead, he turns again and sits on the bed with her straddling him.

"You're not going to push me away, Jennifer," he says, silently relieved that saying her name this time doesn't result in a flinch. He moves one hand from the back of her thighs to cradle the back of her head and his other hand rests against her lower belly, thumb tauntingly close to her clit. He kisses her neck, sucking at the delicate skin there, "I want this. I want _you."_

She could ask why. She could pull them both out of this moment and try to get him to explain what he could possibly hope to get from this situation that he couldn't get from someone else at half the risk that wanting _her_ brings.

She bites her lip, fighting a whine for his hand to _move,_ "We'll be killed."

She feels him smile against the skin of her neck while his fingers curl against her belly slightly and she fights a shudder, "Nah, _nothing's gonna hurt you, baby_."

His singing voice vibrates through her and she shivers absently again. She pulls away just enough to get him to look at her, "Be serious."

He sighs through his nose again-still all-suffering, still partially frustrated, still slightly agitating to be on the receiving end of-and studies her face before he moves his hand from her belly up to move her hair out of her face, "This _is...you_ are worth my life."

Her heart sinks into her stomach as both flip at that. If she were crueler, or perhaps more merciful in the long run, she would tell him that she isn't. She knows she should want to tell him to never say that again. She should know that now's the time to pull off of him, to go back to being hard and cruel like she wanted to be when she first woke up. But no one has ever told her she's worth anything more than a dollar amount, if that. No one has ever looked at her like he does-so genuinely, so wondrously, so...

He doesn't even know how dangerous those words are, he can't possibly understand how disastrous those words can be. How disastrous those words _will_ be if they keep going down this divergent road.

 _"Don't go where the path may lead you, but instead go where there is no path and leave a trail behind you."_

 _"I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."_

He must see the fear in her eyes because he adds quickly, "But I don't know if I'm worth _your_ life."

She knows what he's doing. She knows the out that he's giving her. She knows that he's trying to be the one to stop this from snowballing into something that will-the way she feels, she knows there is no "could"-crush them both. She could love him for that if she gives herself time, if he gives her the time.

She can say "you're right." She can tell him that this isn't worth her life, that _he's_ not worth it. She can finally get him to pretend this didn't happen. She can make him hate her. She can end this, right here, just by saying two simple words.

But she knows she won't. She _can't._ She looks into his soft, dark eyes, and she finally understands something disastrous.

"You are." The words are barely audible compared to the silence that had built up between them, and they stand on weak, newly formed legs on his chest.

She brings her hands up to frame his face, fingers lightly tracing his lips, before she offers the words a gentle push towards him, "You _are_ worth my life."

His eyes light up at that and he smiles-god his _smile-and_ he kisses her again, all rough and full of too much excitement, as he turns them so that she's lying under him on the mattress. She can't stop the giggle that bubbles out of her when he does. She gets close to crossing her ankles at the small of his back and rolls her hips against him again. He laughs back, a delightful combination of the same elation she feels and a wonderful growl. She shouldn't feel this elated, this giddy at having him in her hands, at having him at all-this is a death sentence and they both know it.

"Tell me." He murmurs against her neck, moving up to nip at her earlobe, "Tell me, Jennifer."

She swallows, and repeats to him what he had just told her, "I want this. I want _you."_

He could ask why. He could pull them both out of this moment and try to get her to explain what she could possibly hope to get from this situation that she couldn't get from someone else at half the risk that wanting _him_ brings. He could do a lot of things, but doesn't.

Their time is so limited and he doesn't want to waste a moment more of it talking about...well anything really.

"Do you remember what you said when we first kissed?" He asks as he burns a trail of nibbling kisses down her body, full of intent and promises that he had better keep if he knows what's good for him. He, at least, knows how to distract her.

She just barely takes in the question-does he _have_ to be so good with his mouth? or his hands? or both of them at the same time?-but she manages a breathy laugh before repeating what she'd said in what feels like another lifetime, "We are in _such_ fucking _trouble."_

He stops what he's doing, just long enough to get her to look at him, head now comfortably positioned between her thighs, and grins at her, "Yeah, we are. But you're worth it."


End file.
